Last Hope of a Desperate Man
by chrissie0707
Summary: Tag for 13X18 "Bring 'Em Back Alive." Sam watches his brother go, the small bullet warm and wet in his fist, unable to fight the sinking feeling that his big brother is on a path to do something horribly, self-destructively stupid.


_Author Note: I really hope this goes without saying, but this is HELLA spoilery with the name-dropping if you're not caught up through Thursday's ep._

 _Second Author Note: I've been watching old and new Con videos the past couple of days, and my Chuck, do I not know what to do with myself without this show._

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 **Last Hope of a Desperate Man**

"Dean. We will find Gabriel." Castiel's voice is deliberately steady, like he's attempting to calm a cornered, feral animal. And given Dean's explosion just a moment ago, that's not so far off the mark. "We will."

The ensuing silence seems to stretch on for hours, before Dean speaks. "We better." He stands still, tense and pissed and clearly in pain.

Sam and Cas exchange a quick look, but none of them moves.

Finally, Dean sniffs, lifting a trembling hand to scrub at his dirt-streaked face. "Dammit." He stalks stiffly to the bar cart and uses his left hand to pour a drink, right arm hanging loosely at his side. The neck of the decanter connects with the rim of a glass with a _smack_ that echoes through the library.

Sam swallows uneasily as he studies his brother. There's a concerning, decent-sized bloodstain on his jacket surrounding an obvious bullet hole. He squints, searching out a matching hole in Dean's back, doesn't find one. Yeah. _I'm fine_ isn't gonna cut it. Even so, it's with a fair amount of caution that he approaches, leveling a sideways glance at Cas. "Dean."

"Sam, I swear to – "

He takes a breath, raises his hands. "I get it, man."

Dean whirls, eyes wide and wet. "No, you don't. It's…I could've…Sam, they are _stuck_ there. Mom and Jack, and…Charlie." He drops his bright gaze to the empty glass in his hand, refills it quickly.

Sam _does_ get it. What he wouldn't give for that do-over, for a chance to _save_ her instead of...

The guilt he feels from the mere mention of Charlie is overwhelming, suffocating, and much more deserved than whatever blame and responsibility his brother has decided to claim for himself. But he can't imagine voicing any of that is going to do much good right now.

"Yeah." Dean drains the glass, lets the heavy base _clunk_ against the cart. He bites back a groan, rotating as he folds over his right arm.

He looks awful, exhausted and chalk-white beneath a layer of sweat and grime. A fresh bloom of blood colors his shoulder, the wound aggravated by his earlier outburst. They don't need to go through the motions of _how bad is it_ and _let me see_ ; Castiel is right here, just waiting for the word. But like he senses it, Dean pushes away from the cart and weaves his way to the other end of the room.

He wants to be tough. To play keep-away with his injury. To wallow, use his anger and pain as fuel. And that's all well and good, but on the other side of that rift Michael is still searching out a way into this world with the intent to level it. This fight's nowhere near over, and that's Dean's gun arm.

For all his intentions, Dean's losing steam quickly, chasing a gunshot and forty-eight hours of no sleep – and likely no food – with two quick glasses of whiskey. It's only a moment before he collapses into a chair with a sigh of surrender, pulling his arm across his chest.

Sam pounces, yanking swiftly on the already-ripped collar of his brother's t-shirt. The wound beneath Dean's collarbone is wet with new blood, but expertly field-dressed. "Ketch did this?" he asks incredulously.

"Yeah." Dean sandwiches the confirmation with a breathy laugh, like he can hardly believe it himself. "Feels like that limey bastard was just kicking my lame ass all over this room."

Sam could really do without the reminder. He frowns, digging a fingernail under an edge of the medical tape and exposing an ugly, oozing hole packed with some kind of paste, and faint intertwined lines branching out from the center. It's reminiscent of a receding infection, but not like one he's ever seen before. "Dean, what…"

Dean shrugs his shoulder, hisses. "Quit pickin' at it, Sam. I said I'm fine."

"Not even close." Sam raises his eyes. "Cas?"

Castiel is at their side in a flash, a hand covering Dean's wounded shoulder. The touch draws a wince, and Cas frowns. "The bullet is lodged in bone."

Paling further, Dean huffs and tries to lean away. "You don't say."

"This might hurt."

A flare of soft light radiates from the hand Cas presses to Dean's back, and Sam grimaces as his brother groans in pain.

"Mm, son of a _bitch._ "

The bullet pops out silently, bounces off Dean's leg and _clinks_ to the cement, rolls to a stop against the table leg. Cas immediately clamps his other hand over the wound, repairing splintered bone and ravaged muscle and sealing the hole.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks." Dean pulls his arm back into his own possession and rolls his shoulder experimentally, then reaches up to probe the spot and pull off the rest of the bandaging. He tosses the bloody handful of gauze to the tabletop, won't make eye contact with either of them.

Sam stoops to collect the fallen bullet, wet with his brother's blood, and thinks back on the one Dean dug out of his gut a couple of years ago. _We're gonna keep that one. That one's gonna be a little memento. We'll laugh about it some other time._ They never got around to laughing about that bullet, and he doesn't think they're likely to laugh about this one, either.

Dean's coloring still isn't great, and even without the physical pain of whatever the bullet did – something bad enough to have _Ketch_ patching him up – his gaze is far-off and wounded. "I should never have come back," he says, low and steady and staring at the wall.

He doesn't yell this time, but Sam flinches all the same. "Dean – "

His brother shoves up from the chair, wavering a bit on his feet. He needs rest, and food, and some sort of reassurance Sam's not in a position to give, as badly as he might want to. "Hit the books, Sam. Find us another way."

Sam closes his fingers around the bullet, makes a fist at his side. "Dean, there might not BE another way."

Dean shakes his head, a rough jerk of his chin. "Then find him," he snaps. His eyes roam the landscape of the room, landing briefly on what's left of the whiskey before he decides that _escape_ is his priority, and he leaves the library with heavy, wooden steps.

Sam watches his brother go, the small bullet warm and wet in his fist, unable to fight the sinking feeling that his big brother is on a path to do something horribly, self-destructively stupid.

Clearly, he's not the only one. "I'll…begin searching."

"Thanks, Cas." Sam doesn't watch the angel leave, doesn't move until he hears the heavy clank of the bunker's door shutting.

If there is a Plan B, he needs to come up with it _now_. Because that look in his brother's eyes bordered on sheer desperation. And Dean is lethal on his worst days, but never more dangerous than when he's desperate.


End file.
